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Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime rot and consume themselves in little time.
Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime rot and consume themselves in little time.
Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught read more
Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
By plucking her petals, you do not gather the beauty of the flower.
By plucking her petals, you do not gather the beauty of the flower.
Where fall the tears of love the rose appears,
And where the ground is bright with friendship's tears,
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Where fall the tears of love the rose appears,
And where the ground is bright with friendship's tears,
Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue,
Spring glittering with the cheerful drops like dew.
Sweet letters of the angel tongue,
I've loved ye long and well,
And never have failed in read more
Sweet letters of the angel tongue,
I've loved ye long and well,
And never have failed in your fragrance sweet
To find some secret spell,--
A charm that has bound me with witching power,
For mine is the old belief,
That midst your sweets and midst your bloom,
There's a soul in every leaf!
Flowers. . . are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world.
Flowers. . . are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world.
Every flower is a soul blossoming in Nature.
Every flower is a soul blossoming in Nature.
Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil.
Not a flower
But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil.
Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
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Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
In scented bowers!
Ye roses on your thorny tree
The first o' flow'rs.
